crack a molar grinding my teeth from stress.
Just in time. I see the signs for the rink, and as casually as I can manage, I spit out the mouth guard so I can tell Brig, “Take the next exit.”
He glances over, does a double take—somehow he didn’t noticed me gearing up eighteen inches away—and sends the van into a sickening swerve.
“It’s a surprise; I’ll explain to you and everyone in the back in a few minutes.” I try to grin, but my mouth is so dry my top lip sticks to my mouth guard and I give more of a sick grimace.
“Uh-huh.” His voice is flat. He should be thrilled I’m clearing the way for him to take over my place in the company. And the family. I feel a stab of jealousy.
Focus. Rid the mind of distractions.
I direct Brig to the rink and ask him to slow way down as he nears the front door. “Don’t stop; I’ll jump out and use my duffel to break my fall while you keep driving. Just circle the lot so the sensation of the van stopping won’t wake anyone. I’ll let you know when to stop.”
He just stares out the windshield. After I’ve taken care of the registration details and am ready to get my skate on, I’ll come back out and wave at Brig to park the van. And that’s when I’ll wake them all up and break the news to Dad.
I’m getting good at planning. Now I’m picturing Dad leaping onto the ice and sweeping me up in a big bear hug after I’ve flipped a puck into the goal past two big defensemen bearing down on me. I imagine a parade with confetti, and T-shirts with my name on them, and endorsement deals, especially for those protein bars and electrolyte water drinks I like. But that all comes after Dad says I was right about hockey school and assures me he totally understands, appreciates, and forgives my underhanded way of getting here.
Brig slows the van to the correct speed as we pull up to the rink. I tumble out, precisely as planned, on my pads and duffel, and roll to my feet. Man, where are random passersby with video cameras when you need them?
I sail into the rink and spot the sign-up table. My name is on their master list of invitees. I’m given a numbered sticker to put on my jersey and assigned to a scrimmage group. My age takes the ice in twenty minutes, so I put on the rest of my gear, except for my skates, which I leave loosened and ready to slip into next to my stick by the door to the ice. If you can’t tighten and tie your skates in under a minute, you’ve got no business calling yourself a hockey player.
I’m ready to head outside to flag down Brig.
He sees me waving at him and slams on the brakes. Well, no need to worry about waking everyone; the way they were hurtled through the air did that nicely. I count to ten and head to the back of the van.
Dad, the guys, Jacob, and Charlotte look groggy. And, when they see me in full hockey attire, surprised. Dad and Atticus look disappointed.
“So, um, great news!” I say, adopting Dad’s technique of fake cheer. “You all get to watch me try out for the hockey academy!”
I had planned to say more, but Dad and Atticus look away from me, and my mind goes blank.
“So…anyway…I’m up in a few minutes….Hope you’ll come in and, uh, cheer me on.”
Silence.
I turn and trudge back to the rink. This isn’t how I pictured this moment, and I sure never imagined the sinking feeling of…shame.
Then I start to get mad. This is all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, and Dad’s ruining it for me. Again. First he yanked me out of camp last year after promising I could go, and now…I start to stomp a little harder.
Dad quits jobs and sells houses and reneges on promises and never asks anyone ahead of time if they’re on board with his plans, and
he’s
making
me
feel like a louse for doing what I need to do to protect the only thing I’ve ever worked for?
I jam my feet into my skates and yank the laces so hard as I tie my boots that I practically stop the blood flow to my toes. I stamp my feet a few
Just in time. I see the signs for the rink, and as casually as I can manage, I spit out the mouth guard so I can tell Brig, “Take the next exit.”
He glances over, does a double take—somehow he didn’t noticed me gearing up eighteen inches away—and sends the van into a sickening swerve.
“It’s a surprise; I’ll explain to you and everyone in the back in a few minutes.” I try to grin, but my mouth is so dry my top lip sticks to my mouth guard and I give more of a sick grimace.
“Uh-huh.” His voice is flat. He should be thrilled I’m clearing the way for him to take over my place in the company. And the family. I feel a stab of jealousy.
Focus. Rid the mind of distractions.
I direct Brig to the rink and ask him to slow way down as he nears the front door. “Don’t stop; I’ll jump out and use my duffel to break my fall while you keep driving. Just circle the lot so the sensation of the van stopping won’t wake anyone. I’ll let you know when to stop.”
He just stares out the windshield. After I’ve taken care of the registration details and am ready to get my skate on, I’ll come back out and wave at Brig to park the van. And that’s when I’ll wake them all up and break the news to Dad.
I’m getting good at planning. Now I’m picturing Dad leaping onto the ice and sweeping me up in a big bear hug after I’ve flipped a puck into the goal past two big defensemen bearing down on me. I imagine a parade with confetti, and T-shirts with my name on them, and endorsement deals, especially for those protein bars and electrolyte water drinks I like. But that all comes after Dad says I was right about hockey school and assures me he totally understands, appreciates, and forgives my underhanded way of getting here.
Brig slows the van to the correct speed as we pull up to the rink. I tumble out, precisely as planned, on my pads and duffel, and roll to my feet. Man, where are random passersby with video cameras when you need them?
I sail into the rink and spot the sign-up table. My name is on their master list of invitees. I’m given a numbered sticker to put on my jersey and assigned to a scrimmage group. My age takes the ice in twenty minutes, so I put on the rest of my gear, except for my skates, which I leave loosened and ready to slip into next to my stick by the door to the ice. If you can’t tighten and tie your skates in under a minute, you’ve got no business calling yourself a hockey player.
I’m ready to head outside to flag down Brig.
He sees me waving at him and slams on the brakes. Well, no need to worry about waking everyone; the way they were hurtled through the air did that nicely. I count to ten and head to the back of the van.
Dad, the guys, Jacob, and Charlotte look groggy. And, when they see me in full hockey attire, surprised. Dad and Atticus look disappointed.
“So, um, great news!” I say, adopting Dad’s technique of fake cheer. “You all get to watch me try out for the hockey academy!”
I had planned to say more, but Dad and Atticus look away from me, and my mind goes blank.
“So…anyway…I’m up in a few minutes….Hope you’ll come in and, uh, cheer me on.”
Silence.
I turn and trudge back to the rink. This isn’t how I pictured this moment, and I sure never imagined the sinking feeling of…shame.
Then I start to get mad. This is all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, and Dad’s ruining it for me. Again. First he yanked me out of camp last year after promising I could go, and now…I start to stomp a little harder.
Dad quits jobs and sells houses and reneges on promises and never asks anyone ahead of time if they’re on board with his plans, and
he’s
making
me
feel like a louse for doing what I need to do to protect the only thing I’ve ever worked for?
I jam my feet into my skates and yank the laces so hard as I tie my boots that I practically stop the blood flow to my toes. I stamp my feet a few
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